


hearth and home (fire and fleet)

by Quillori



Series: Jeanie the Witch [2]
Category: Goblin Market - Christina Rossetti
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:18:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/pseuds/Quillori
Summary: Perhaps Laura's kernel grew in the end after all, and seeded.





	hearth and home (fire and fleet)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selden/gifts).



They say it grows by chance, and you’re as like to find it in some orchard corner as among the wild old woods; some cultivated orchard, cared for, tended, plant after plant neatly in rows, twisted into shape, espaliered, ready for plucking. But there, easy to miss, one plant among many, maybe a little taller, a little greener, the fruit a smidgeon redder, but really, nothing beyond the ordinary, nothing to attract the eye of the gardener, or his sharp knife - there, there it is, the maiden’s prayer, the wife’s relief, the hag’s revenge. Anyone could find it, if they looked long enough, looked with enough care, but of course they don’t. They ask me instead. 

A line of girls, all in their Sunday best, on their way to church. They murmur together, cooing like doves, as easily startled as doves, wary of men. One looks up for a moment, away from the rest. It is only a moment, and easily missed, but it is no surprise, later, when she comes to my door. She wants - what does she want? She hardly knows herself. Perhaps she wants some man to look at her, to forget his friends, his parents, the sweetheart he has already chosen, and long only for her. Perhaps she wants to forget these things herself: she would be happy if I sent her off into the old woods, pruning knife in hand, to bring back her own medicine, happy for the excuse to escape her life, step for a moment outside the orchard walls. 

I do my duty, as a woman should. My house is neat and clean, the floor swept, the hearth scrubbed. Out in the garden there is the hum of bees, and a dish of honey sits on the counter. The bed is an ordinary bed, sheets neatly darned and white with washing: no silks and satins here, no luxuries, no fairy glamour. Only perhaps, at times, the light comes in just so, catching the row of cordials and refracting back, a jewel-box of colours, glowing and shifting: cherry-red, grenadine, the scarlet of yew berries. She sits on the edge of the bed, a little uncertain, though not wary enough (or perhaps wary of the wrong thing). How do I do it? Why is my cordial so much sweeter, so much better and richer than the others? Where do I find such fruit? 

That light spills through the window, the warm, safe light of the noonday sun, catching on the bottles, on the girl’s golden hair, on her softly dreaming smile. What did she come looking for? Who can say? Next time, she will come looking for this, and this alone. Really, it’s better this way. Safer. More proper. You can’t have girls chasing after men, or wandering off alone. Better they come here, to me. Well, maybe not better for them, though they’d fight you on that, but better for everyone else: you have to think like a gardener, pruning the wayward flower. 

A woman’s work is never done: there are hens and cows and hives, fruit and herbs and roots, water to be fetched, darning and sewing and cooking and cleaning, and all to do again. Really, what use is a husband in all of this? He’s just another mouth to feed. Or perhaps she wants him still, as a possession if nothing more, but his eyes strayed from hers, and his heart after. Other parts too, I should imagine. Or perhaps there are too many children, and enough is enough, one way or another. 

Well, what could be more proper than to pay a call on a neighbour, bring her a fresh baked cake, soft and scented with vanilla, with peach? Perhaps she is coming to ask a blessing on her house, a cure for her youngest child, a charm to protect her husband’s sheep. Perhaps she came from pure neighbourliness, helping a woman alone, with no husband or children to succour her. Even the sharpest tongued gossip can find nothing to cavil at there. But I have seen the look in her eyes: not for long, no, never for long, and very easy to miss, but when she thinks she’s unobserved, I see the way she looks at him, and I had put the kettle on already when she came, ready for a friendly chat. Perhaps she will leave later, clutching a handful of berries. Perhaps I shall tell her truthfully what to do with them. Perhaps not.

Thye sit in the market square, dressed all in black. No one now remembers the time when they wore other colours. (I mean, of course, the individual women, who once dressed in their Sunday best and wore ribbons in their hair. The old women, taken as a category, not as a collection of individuals, have always worn black and nothing else.) They are still good for something: they can tend the children while the parents are busy, they can stir the pot over the fire, they can keep an eye on things. You would think they would have nothing left to want, and no one left to hate. And perhaps, for many of them, it is so. There will be a flicker of memory, of thought: there is a sour cherry ball - they always liked those; there is Maggie, who smiled at their husband fifty years ago or more - they have always hated her. But it is no more than a flicker, a reflection of past passion, grown faint with age, as meaningless as coloured lights reflected on a wall. 

Some one or two go further. Not more: there are so many snares by the wayside for those who will not keep to the path, it is no surprise if by the end those who remain look neither to the right nor to the left, and walk only where they should. But a careless child burns itself in the fire, unwitting of danger, and so too in age, forgetful, unwise, some one or other of them will come visit my house. But why should I help them now, who refused my help when they were young? Let them search the orchards and the wild woods themselves, hobbling along, sight dim, mouth mumbling, a caution to all. Let them gibber and beg: _my_ house is warm, well-built and dry, provisioned for winter.

Save yourselves, my girls, save yourselves. For there’s a price to be paid, and no one else is on your side.


End file.
